My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  The sunken eyes and high chills in a warm car during summer. I killed him, Mark thought. No, I murdered him. This sweet boy. Oh, this sweet child. What could be worse? The mother looked down on the large city of moving cars, mountains, and working-class men and women. It was calm and quiet. No sound vibrated through the windows, while men and women went on with their day. Every single one had problems they bickered about. The sixth floor was a society made up of young and heavily trialed children, the innocent who were shown the darkness of the world they could not yet understand. It was a society boxed in mirrors that showed the world of carelessness, people who did not carry the same weight of gratefulness that the children do there, bickering and craving less important needs like a new car or better grades in college. While looking through the glass and your reflection, boxed in a single floor, you feel ignored, passed by from the appearing and disappearing automobiles on the busy road, letting your boxed society handle your reflection, and your boxed society alone observing through the one-way mirrors. Even when you leave, there’s still a part of you that would always stay. A part that you will always see what was boxed up and hidden in plain sight.

  The mother spoke in a calm voice while turned in her chair. “I’m not going to sue you, officer. Tyler, after the accident, woke up before surgery smiling and told both his father and I how you treated him like a normal human, not someone who was sick. This is something that means a lot to the boy. Then this morning he told both the doctors and us that he never told you about the cancer and where he was going, giving you suspicion of drug abuse and illegal use. I was so furious, and I… You wouldn’t understand.” She kept back the anger, which felt like needles in her throat to be so kind to the man who caused it all. “It was foolish of me to tear up. But Tyler is a very sharp boy. He, no matter what, understands my thoughts and feelings.” The mother let out a short laugh, yet not with humor but acknowledgement. “Without hesitation, Tyler made me promise not to harm you in any way and named off the ways I could.” This time she laughed with gentle humor. “He told me economically, socially, mentally, or physically, and I couldn’t break that promise to him. In that moment, Tyler was experiencing drastic intoxication of pain, he was so taken aback from his injuries, you could see the pain in his eyes.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began again. “I arrived last night from work and they were the first words that came from his mouth. Within a heartbeat, I would have gladly declined his plea. His father and I would have ruined you in every way I could.” For a moment, she stopped talking to absorb the power of her words while also realizing she’d lied, never being able to decline his pleas, especially when he had been so certain with his words the night before, so convinced. Her lip quivered. “But I’m not going to disappoint Tyler. It’s dangerous.”

  Mark bathed in guilt. Children, he was being crushed again and again and again. He felt blood on his hands and tears on his shoulder, continuously being poured on by what the mother said.

  When did everything change? When was I not the man I am now? he thought. I need Mary. I need Tyler. God, please don’t kill them all, please not my Hand Mitten, please not the child. Although this request was selfish, Mark wished not to feel guilt. The mother looked over and again saw the love he possessed and this constant, silent trickle of tears making his face shine and his clothes wet. It reminded her of the simpler times, when Tyler was a child with simple problems and immediate answers that were solvable. Answers like a kiss on a cut, a time out for mud tracks in the house, a scoop of ice cream for standing up to the class menace, or a bed to sleep in from a nightmare. She was still outraged at Mark but knew what he needed. The woman stood up, tired of his quietness and looks of self-disgust, wiped off her tears and rubbed the dribble off from her nose, to reach forward and squeeze Mark into a warm hug. All the little battles were practice for hugs like this, and she had perfected it. These were the hugs for the nightmares. Mark quickly halted his quiet and shocked tears, finding himself back in reality with tense muscles. But soon he loosened up and accepted the hug. They both knew how it felt to have blood on their hands. This hug gave them both relief. Mark was able to keep the tears in his head, and the woman’s tension also left, yet the embrace, this second moment, was not forgiveness, but understanding. But not too long did these comforting conditions last. “My name is Mary.”

  Mark shuddered to her response and she quickly backed away. He placed a hand to his mouth and froze in overwhelming, desolating fear. “Sorry, say again?”

  “I said my name is Sarah. Are you okay?” Sarah questioned. Mark sat forward in his chair and laid both hands on his thighs, with a slight slant of the neck looking toward the ground’s tile and the sealed metal door’s crack. Then he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He started tapping both thighs with his hands, breathing through his nose and out his mouth, and thinking to himself, It’s Sarah, her name is Sarah, it’s Sarah, her name is Sarah.

  “Sorry, I thought you said Mary,” Mark stated. “My name’s Mark.” Mark grabbed his knees in stress with huge, sweaty palms and continued to grab and release, grab and release, feeling the force of memories trying to weaken his control, pulling off finger after finger of his grip on reality. Sarah sat back down and her curiosity struck; she was fascinated. Sarah had found a trigger.

  “Who’s Mary?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “And she’s dead?”

  “No, please no. She’s alive. She’s at home,” Mark said, feeling another finger slip off.

  “Why are you afraid of her name?”

  Mark froze in his spot. Another ten seconds passed just like the meeting with Sarah at Tyler’s hospital room door. As a psychiatrist, Sarah could glean exactly what Mark was experiencing. He was getting worse, the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was a given, but some unknown psychological problems were there as well. He was slowly losing reality like he was on a progressing dosage of LSD; she could see the advancement from his voice, his features. This is bigger than I first believed, Sarah thought while continuing to stare at Mark’s absent face. Much bigger than I believed.

  Finally, Aaron was on his way outside. He’d had a long talk in the cafeteria with Tyler’s father, and Aaron told him everything. During the past hour, Tom had run up to the sixth floor, gone through the bolted door, and found Tyler’s room, but knew it wasn’t right. Freezing at the door, about to enter in with confidence to talk to both Tyler and Mark, Tom turned around. Mark needed time.

  The Prayer

  Mark was home with Mary when it happened: when Iraq invaded Kuwait. It was a frightening day for everyone. On August 2, 1990, Saddam Hussein, Iraq’s dictator, had been threatening Kuwait for some time. The land of Kuwait was at one point part of Iraq and presently controlled 20 percent of the world’s oil reserves and a coastline of the Persian Gulf. Kuwait was also bordered by only Iraq and very vulnerable due to its small size. Within hours, downtown Kuwait City was taken over, and forces began to head south toward the Saudi Arabian border. The neighboring nations, Egypt and Saudi Arabia, quickly called on the UN for support. That same day, the United Nations Security Council demanded Iraq’s withdrawal from Kuwait. The Pentagon also had plans to aid Saudi Arabia and met with King Fahd of Saudi Arabia to inform him of their plans. Then, in mere minutes of his approval, orders were sent out, which began the largest buildup of American forces since Vietnam. By the final days of September, two hundred thousand Americans were in Saudi Arabia, enough to defend from any Iraqi attack. This defense was known as Operation Desert Shield. The neighboring country was protected, so the spread of Iraq was threatened, but there was more to be done.

  On August 6, 1990, the council called for a worldwide ban on trade with the country, and on November 29, the UN agreed to use “all necessary means” of force against Iraq if their men didn’t withdraw from Kuwait by January 15. Time passed slowly and steadily as the days continued to blow by, and every new day Kuwait was still occup
ied, every rising sun closer to the determined deadline that would never be met, was closer to the day of decided warfare. Lockdown was complete. Hussein refused to retreat his forces from Kuwait. Six hundred eighty thousand allied troops, mostly American, gathered in the Middle East to enforce an Iraqi retreat through overwhelming firepower, a representation of the world’s combined efforts to demolish a weaker evil. At 4:30 p.m. EST on January 16, 1991, Operation Desert Storm began when fighter planes were launched from US and British aircraft carriers on the Persian Gulf. For six weeks, the battle in air thickened, bombs flying from UN forces toward Iraqi air bases and command centers, while Iraq aimed their air forces toward main cities in Saudi Arabia and Israel. Mark, Tom, and camp after camp of troops stayed alert and ready for a ground attack, many eager, fearful, and excited all at once. They all left after January 15. The day before, Mark and Mary held hands before yet another operation, lying down on thin, white cotton blankets and rubber hospital beds on their sides. Mark asked the colon doctor if he ever had crappy days or if someone ever ripped a loud one mid-operation. The doctor smiled while Mary laughed with embarrassment and good humor, knowing he lightened the atmosphere to ease her nerves. He left twenty minutes after waking from the operation, a kiss and a promise from his Hand Mitten, called a taxi, and left weary while his wife rested in the crowded recovery room. He promised that he’d come back from the Middle East, he and Tom both. The kiss was quick, a passionate peck on the lips as if they had the rest of their lives left to spend together, a casual touch as if he were off to another day of training on the base. Yet seconds later Mark returned, realizing his mistake, and kissed her again, this time longer and more passionate, as if it could be the last day on Earth, and then he left. This was the only surgery they didn’t celebrate, as it became tradition to invite friends over for a beer and have a party, and some even half expected written invitations to arrive in the mail or a call on their home phone. He packed up a camo backpack and a shoulder carry-on with blankets, books, a deck of cards, a Bible, clothes, peanuts, and a picture of Mary. Yet before Mark left, his eye caught new designs in Mary’s art room, still drying from the wet paint used on the canvas the day before. He stood there as if in mid motion, a camo hat on his head and his military jacket half on, curiosity itching his mind as he saw the diverse colors splattered the way they were. He threw his jacket’s left sleeve over his left arm and walked in slowly and cautiously, as if every step were more dangerous than the last. Her artwork is like her diary, Mark thought to himself as he drew nearer and nearer to the wet canvas, stepping on the dull orange tiles with periodic crusty, splattered colors of paint on the floor. This was done before we left for the hospital, Mark thought. She must have been painting till the second we left. The painting had a man in the photo, hiding under brown sandbags while bullets flew over his head, and the man was bawling through his red, puffy eyes, mourning over a disfigured figure in the yellow mud, ugly, broken, and dismantled, with limbs out of sockets and organs spilling out. It was tragically and graphically upsetting, like a mad cartoon with its overly dramatic features. But above him were floating spirits dining at a table, laughing, shaking hands, hugging with other phantoms, playing poker, wearing top hats, while all being well dressed, clean cut, and precise in their shape. The man wasn’t; his face had sweat dripping from the side, blood from his nose, and a drooped, dramatic, cartoon portrayal of shock. But behind the man was what could be the dead, discombobulated soldier drenched and sinking in the mud, yet not the physical being, but the phantom, giving a transparent hug from behind, with a glistening, shiny smile. It was the focal point of the entire painting. Mark picked up the painting, studied it with much discomfort, the dark, emotional shades and the waxy, living characters in the drawing. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw another piece of art hidden behind it. It was much more simple but as impactful as the last. It was a light pencil sketch of a messy, graffiti-looking font written on the side of a brick wall. The wall seemed to be a part of an apartment, with people inside, dining and laughing like the ghosts, almost perfectly parallel to the ghosts. The graffiti said:

  You’re home, never leave my hand again. I never doubted your return.

  —Love, your Hand Mitten

  In the street there was a drawing of two swans kissing, with another swan close by. The third swan was obviously not related, painted first as a solid black. Although Mark knew who the third swan was. It was Tom. Mary’s right, Mark thought. I’m as clueless as you are, sweetheart.

  Mark wasn’t stationed with Tom. They led different groups along the Saudi Arabian front. Mark, in the heat of war, was promoted to staff sergeant, and Tom became a sergeant. Then they left. Eight hours passed in the plane, and they landed in a military camp at Saudi Arabia. Mark met his new team of men with very limited with knowledge, only because Mark was a very skilled teacher in the military. Tom, stationed miles away, was in charge of men his own age and thought of Vietnam. The average age in Vietnam was nineteen, which at the time was two years younger than the voting age. Tom thought of alcoholism and an upsetting return to the United States. Just like your father, he thought to himself while observing his team with caution. Mark taught his squad basic rules: Listen and never question; Be brave, but never arrogant; Never stop and think before shooting, because the Iraqis won’t. Tom was less knowledgeable and less confident but fought his fear and commanded as he was taught. Mark continued to worry about Tom and Mary. Time went on, and on February 24, a massive offensive ground attack began, which ended Desert Storm’s operation in a massive invasion between the Iraqi ground forces and all the major empires in the world. On February 23, Mark prepared his squad in a small tent. They were not close to alone; endless military tents were crowded together, waiting for the raid, preparing themselves. The night was dimming down, and Mark lit up the room with a lantern. He began with their strengths and weaknesses, then fell into complex depth of their formations and what classified as common stupidity, although most of his speech was merely moral support, since you cannot ace a test with studious actions the night before. When reaching the end, a peanut-brown-haired man drenched in sweat ran into the crowded tent with a letter.

  “Staff Sergeant Mark Wegman?” the messenger yelled.

  “Yes,” Mark said powerfully.

  “Come outside, sir, I need to talk to you,” the messenger nervously commanded while gasping for air. Mark looked around at his team and then up.

  “If that is what you wish,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, very much,” the man said as he turned around and walked out. Mark followed.

  “What’s wrong, good man?” Mark kindly spoke, but the man, still heavily breathing, exclaimed loud and powerfully:

  “I was told to find you as fast as I could. This message was delayed for weeks! You need to leave, sir, you need to go home.”

  Mark’s expression turned very grave.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The man looked up at Mark. He was not young but still carried many soft features in his pale white half-Irish face. He handed him the letter, outstretched by an arm’s length yet closer than ever before. The days had marched by without his knowledge as a letter floated around from hand to hand, border through border, from one side of the world to the other, with news about a war to come. The news that was destined to fall into his hands, wasting three years of preparation on the night before war and leaving it all behind forever.

  “It’s your wife.”

  ◆◆◆

  The plane trip was long, his patience melting faster and faster as he tapped his feet on the ground and his fingers on the arm of the coach chair he rode in. Mark felt as if an hour were far off in the distance, and every hour that slowly passed brought over an even more potent thought of Mary’s name on a gravestone. He began to think of what the man had told him. How she had only written that her time was limited and she needed her husband. Mark had called her from a long-distance military phone an
d given her a date upon returning from the Middle East, asking why she never called, why he didn’t find out sooner. But I did, he heard her say through the phone, every day I called, every day. She told him to meet her at the hospital back in Tucson on the sixth floor upon returning.

  This plane, he thought, is taking too long. I need to feel her heart, I need my Hand Mitten. God please let the cancer be mine, let it be me. He cracked open his Bible and gently swayed from side to side like a tree in the wind.

  When reaching the airport, he left his luggage in the claim area, bought a rental car, and sped through the five o’clock rush hour like a madman, passing and cutting off cars like a stream passing through rocks.

  This is Satan’s work, Mark thought while passing a red Toyota 4Runner laying on the horn, because Mary is an angel, she’s always been an angel, she doesn’t deserve this. He accelerated toward a yellow light, meeting the intersection the moment it turned red. How could she call me day in and day out, yet I was never informed of any calls at all? Precious time, oh precious time!

  He swerved into the first parking lot available, which said, “Radiation and Surgery Patients Only” in bold black letters on a sign above the lot, like the eyes of a hawk waiting to shame any dishonest guests. He then ran over the cracked concrete and entered through two glass doors, the face of the building. The front desk woman yelled for him to walk, but Mark did no such thing and ran by as if she were some sort of spirit or a brick wall. He tried the elevators, but as he watched the lights on the top drop patiently from the fifth floor to the fourth, he knew that by the time it arrived he would have died from the choking tension to see his wife. So Mark ran up the gray concrete stairs behind an off-white door and beat the elevator by two seconds. He bumped into a young nurse and doctor, passing through the swaying doors and hospital hallway lights as his boots echoed off the light brown tiles of the hospital floor. He then, for the first time, approached the metal door—the intimidating front entrance to a hidden society that he would soon see again more than twenty years later. Mark pressed a red button on the side, under a speaker, a circular camera, and a note that said, “press button, await front desk.” He waited, breathing a little heavier than usual, in the best shape of his life. While he waited, the speaker chimed three repeating notes, from low to high, low to high, and as he awaited the front desk, felt like lifetimes passed by his eyes, as if he could watch his own hands whittle away from the effects of time. Do-do-do, do-do-do, do-do-do the speaker said as his hands clenched tighter and tighter, waiting to see his wife. Do-do-do, do-do-do, do-do-do. His boot tapped on the ground like a rabbit’s foot, please be alive, he thought, please be alive. Then the door opened, locks on vertical sides snapped coldly, and the hinges didn’t squeak the slightest. Mark ran toward the front desk, back in motion.